


Mourning Customs

by ncfan



Series: Gondolin [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And I suspect that this took a toll on his mindset, Angst, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Elvish Culture, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Trigger warnings inside, Turgon's life was screwed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon and mourning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mourning Customs

**Author's Note:**

> [Content Note/Trigger Warning: Death; mentions of starvation; the Helcaraxë; Basically, this is a story covering part of Turgon's gradual emotional deterioration over the course of his life]
> 
> So... Turgon is a character I really love, even if I don't express it all that well most of the time. To be honest, I'm not sure how well I express that love here, either, but I wanted to explore how his mindset changed over the course of his life as he got hit with tragedy after tragedy, so here we are.

It sometimes seemed a bit ridiculous to Turukáno, that there were customs for mourning in Aman. He could name one occasion in which someone had actually died in the Undying Lands, and even then, it was under extraordinary circumstances. Death wasn't really an occurrence that played on the minds of the Calaquendi.

Truth be told, Turukáno himself didn't have much to say about death, nor mourning. It wasn't a concept he often dwelled upon, as death had not touched anyone among his family since the death of Míriel Serindë, since his mother's Vanyarin family had lost children on the March from Cuiviénen. The customs of mourning were not taught to him by his tutors; what need had the children of the Quendi with mourning customs, anyways? Turukáno would likely not know anything of it at all, if not for the tales certain of his younger siblings and cousins preferred to hear from their grandmother.

"Didn't they ask for this story the last time they were here?" Elenwë whispered in Turukáno's ear as he sat down beside her at the window seat. Little Carnistir toddled over to where Findis was sitting, clambering up onto the window seat where she had taken her seat. Irissë and Findaráto settled down in front of Indis's chair.

Turukáno nodded to her, grimacing. "Irissë and Findaráto are both fascinated with it. I… don't know what Carnistir makes of the story, honestly."

Elenwë smiled slightly, though there was a noticeable trace of ruefulness to the expression. "I would be surprised if anyone can tell what Carnistir makes of anything." No, Carnistir just seemed to want to crawl on his aunt's lap while she did her cross-stitch.

The story Findaráto and Irissë had recently become so enamored of was that of Ranwë, a Vanya whom Indis had known during the March. Ranwë was a nís who had been a warrior in Ingwë's host, and in that description Turukáno could easily see how the tale appealed to Irissë. Apparently Ranwë had also been a practitioner of magic—and in _that_ description, Turukáno could easily see how the tale and the nís appealed to Findaráto.

Personally, Turukáno could understand the appeal of wanting to hear a favored story more than once. He often visited and revisited books he enjoyed reading. However, he couldn't remember the last time he had wanted to revisit some favorite story less than a week after he had last acquainted himself with it. He'd have thought Irissë and Findaráto would have needed a bit more time before they'd long to hear it again.

However, Indis was in her element, radiating confidence as she so rarely did (Later, it occurred to Turukáno that she had probably taken her grandchildren's request to tell the same story she'd told the last time they visited as a compliment). Turukáno had rarely ever seen Irissë sit so still, and this whole thing gave him an opportunity to speak with Elenwë again, so he was hardly going to complain about any of this, even if he didn't understand it all that well.

Indis began the story as she had the last time she told it, with the power of Ranwë's voice and her prowess with the long spear. When he thought the three of them properly engrossed, Turukáno leaned over to Elenwë and quietly asked, "Have you heard anything more from your grandmother?"

"Airanis?" Elenwë murmured. "Yes, I have. She said that she would be happy to accompany us to Taniquetil. She's around three day's walk from Tirion now. We can make the journey together."

Turukáno felt an unusually wide smile steal over his face. "That's wonderful."

Calling it 'sneaking' didn't really sound terribly appropriate to Turukáno, though that was certainly what Findekáno had called it when he first discovered Turukáno and Elenwë's plans. In short, Elenwë was taking leave to attend a festival in Oiolossë, and Turukáno had gotten permission from his parents to attend that festival with her. Unfortunately, there had been a caveat to this. They could not travel together unchaperoned, and as neither Turukáno's parents nor any other member of his family was available to travel with them, they had had to seek, they had needed to seek aid from Elenwë's family again.

Fortunately, Elenwë's paternal grandmother, a wandering priest, was willing to make a side trip to Tirion and travel with them to Oiolossë, as she too intended upon being in the city of the Vanyar come the festival. That situation resolved, Turukáno began going over what he needed to pack in his head and, once finished with that, tried (and never quite succeeded) to strike up conversation with Elenwë once more.

"…And once Ranwë's death had been confirmed—" As with the last occasion she had to tell this story, Indis's demeanor had turned somewhat gloomy "—her husband and their son both sheared their hair, and the Minyar as a whole mourned her death greatly."

"Grandmother?" It was Irissë who spoke, though Findaráto's eyes were also bright with curiosity. "We were wondering about that. Why did Ranwë's husband and her son cut off all of their hair after she died?"

Turukáno shifted his weight in his seat and frowned curiously. To be honest, he had wondered about that as well, though it hadn't piqued his curiosity enough for him to ask.

Indis's eyebrows shot up. "You've not been taught this in your history lessons?"

"Irissë isn't given history lessons," Turukáno called out, before Irissë could say anything. For her part, his sister glared at him, but said nothing. "And Findaráto's lessons have not progressed so far yet." Findaráto was being raised in a way closer to the Falmari's customs than the Noldor's—the Falmari did not begin to educate their children until somewhat later in childhood than the Noldor thought appropriate.

Turukáno couldn't quite discern what Indis thought of that. She pursed her lips slightly, but when she turned her attention back to Findaráto and Irissë, she was smiling gently. "It is a mourning custom among the Calaquendi for neri to cut their hair above their shoulders upon the death of a family member."

"I thought that was because they'd done something bad," Carnistir piped up from the other side of the room.

Findis looked up from her embroidery and hushed him, murmuring, "Only nissi have their hair shorn for such a reason, Moryo. Now listen to Grandmother, alright?"

Indis went on to say, "During the days when death was more common in our lives, grown neri cut their hair short in mourning of the passing of a family member, though they would sometimes do so if it was a friend who died as well. On the other hand, nissi covered their hair for the same purpose, especially Minyarin nissi."

At that, Turukáno directed his gaze to the stole Elenwë wore over her hair, eyebrows raised.

Elenwë caught his eye and her face flushed. She clutched at the edges of the rose-colored stole, crinkling the fabric in her hands. "Those among us who cover our hair do so in mourning of the Marring of Arda," she explained, flustered. "It is a time-honored tradition among our people."

"I… see."

Mourning something that had happened long before you were born, something that you could not change and would never be changed, save by the intervention of Ilúvatar himself, was not something that made the most sense to Turukáno. He would not tread on someone's customs, especially not those that were important to them, but neither would he pretend to understand it. It seemed to him that mourning under these circumstances only hurt the mourner more. Would it not be more sensible to simply try to move on from grief, since there was nothing that could be done to mend what had been broken? That was what Turukáno himself had always been taught, to move on from his mistakes and injuries done to himself once he had set things right or had received an apology (The latter wasn't always very easy, truthfully).

His bemusement must have shown on his face, for Elenwë's lip quirked. "You do realize that the festival we're going to attend is one that mourns the Marring of Arda, do you not?"

"Yes, I do. I just didn't think that mourning the Marring of Arda factored into your everyday life as well."

She smiled slightly. "Well, we feast afterwards, so even if the first part of the festival does not sit well with you, I'm not sure what complaint you could have about the second."

True enough. Turukáno always had enjoyed Vanyarin food.

-0-0-0-

Even with some level of prior warning, Turukáno was unprepared for the unnerving atmosphere and fervor of the festival.

The sky overhead was thick with dark, angry clouds, the relatively thin air of Oiolossë rife with the competing odors of sweat, ozone and the sickly sweet incense being burned at every window. He could take not a single step in any direction without crashing into someone or being nearly bowled over by a Vanya taking part in the festivities. Thunder rolled in the distance. Elenwë's brother, a nér nearly as tall as Turukáno himself, had provided him with the proper clothing to wear to the festival. They were solid black and covered every inch of Turukáno's skin except for the grill over his eyes, and smelled of must and old sweat and soon, fresh sweat as well. The day was sweltering, and by about an hour into the festival Turukáno was covered with sweat, head to toe. The stench rose in his nostrils, made his stomach lurch.

It took Turukáno no time at all to lose sight of Elenwë in the throng. Wherever he went, he had to dodge flailing arms and kicking feet. _This…_ His blood was pounding in his ears. All about him, the revelers beat and tore at their chests, blood caking beneath their fingernails, blood flying through the air and splattering on the cobblestones beneath their feet. _This…_

Turukáno stumbled away from the crowd, taking refuge in a narrow alleyway. He sat upon the ground, cradling his head in his hands. The wailing of the revelers, the dissonant clang of a thousand bells, the pounding of feet upon the stone streets, thunder still making its voice heard periodically, his ears pounded with the sounds of them. The ground reverberated with thousands of stomping feet.

This…

He stared back out into the square, watching them, removed from them. Within the crowd, they'd seem a tangled horde with no rhythm, no rhyme or reason to the steps they took and the movements they made. Perhaps that was only because Turukáno, unfamiliar with the steps, unknowing the secret rhythm that pounded in their veins, was with them, standing still or being jostled back and forth, disrupting the flow of movement. When he sat outside, watching them, he saw neri and nissi in sackcloth and gruesome masks or all-concealing black clothing, swaying, falling, catching themselves and rising again, lifting their arms towards the sky or descending in violence upon their skin, tearing even through the fabric of their clothing.

This was the way the Vanyar mourned the Marring of Arda? The wailing, the violence, blood gleaming in Laurelin's golden light? Arda was Marred by Melkor's violence, so this was how they chose to mourn that fact? With more violence? Did the marks they left on their skin somehow lessen their grief?

Years later, when they were wed, Turukáno would catch sight of a few thin, white marks on Elenwë's chest. They were little things, half-faded by time and by her healing skin. They would have been easy to miss, but Turukáno had seen them, and he knew where they came from.

Elenwë was usually so calm and gentle. He never got the impression that the Marring of Arda was something that she dwelled upon a great deal. To her, it was just something that had happened, something she lived with and did not forget had happened. She had paid respect to her people's customs by covering her hair before they married, but beyond that, Turukáno had never seen anything in her to suggest a particularly vehement grief. And yet there was still something in her that drove her to tear at her own flesh in the undulating masses of her people.

He asked, sometimes, what it was in her that drove her to such lengths. She only smiled and told him not to think of such things, especially not when she was carrying Itarillë.

-0-0-0-

Turukáno had never known darkness. The closest he came to knowing it was time spent in Alqualondë with Findaráto during Telperion's flowering. The two of them would wander the shore and the silver light filtering through the gap in the Pelóri would be so faint that Turukáno could barely make out the face of his cousin beside him. His view of the stars was clearer in Alqualondë than it was anywhere else, no matter what time of day, thanks to the relatively dim Treelight, and he and Findaráto, and whoever else among their family was with them, would sit on the sand and make a game of calling out constellations. During particularly wild storms, there was almost no Treelight visible at all.

Other members of Turukáno's family had had experience with near-darkness or at least relative weakness of Treelight. Irissë had spoken of traveling far to the south of Aman where the light of the Trees, though stronger within the Pelóri than it was without, was so faint that the shadows were always long and deep. Many of Finwë's house had ventured into the deep forests where the undergrowth was so lush and thick that the light barely shone through. Fëanáro and Nerdanel even claimed to have braved Spider-haunted Avathar in their early years, where the only light was starlight.

Turukáno could cope with the fainter light of Alqualondë. He could travel south to the little hamlets, a mixed multitude of Vanyar and Noldor and even a few Falmari, where the light came to shadows. At least the blessed light of Laurelin and Telperion was still shining there.

Turukáno Nolofinwion was a son of the Light. He couldn't imagine being born under starlight as his grandparents and Eärwen had been. He couldn't imagine walking by starlight, and only starlight. He could imagine even less the idea of not having even the stars to see by, not having their presence in the lengths of the firmament.

The Unlight was cold.

The darkness came over them like a blanket wrenched over the head of a child who did not wish to sleep.

With it, cold, and fear, and a great cry arose in the city of the Noldor.

There was more yet to come.

Turukáno hung close to the pyre, though the sight of what burned upon it made his stomach twist, churn, knot itself. It was the greatest source of light they had, you see, and when all about him was darkness, shadows lapping at his feet, the idea of straying far from the fire was abhorrent. He drew Itarillë closer to him in his arms, pressing her head against his shoulder as gently as he could.

" _Elenwë… What is it that the Vanyar mourn about the Marring? Is it simply the disruption of the Ainulindalë? Or…" He licked his lips, feeling sick. "Is it the beginning of terror that your people mourn?"_

_Beside him, the two still bodies in a sea of madness, she looked ghastly in the torchlight, her features barely visible. She shook her head, found his hand and squeezed it. "That wasn't the point."_

" _What was the point?"_

_But Nolofinwë was calling his sons to stand by him, and Turukáno could not stay to hear her explain._

Death had touched Aman, once again. The Trees were despoiled; the Silmarils, receptacles of their light, were stolen. Finwë was dead, and his corpse burned on the funeral pyre. It… It was almost fitting, that he should be the second Quendë to die in Aman. After all… Míriel had been the first.

There was still no word from the Valar.

Turukáno drew Itarillë closer to him still.

The House of Finwë was crowded into the makeshift funereal hall. Turukáno stood with his wife at one shoulder and his sister at the other, the three of them pressed close together. Further down the side of the room where Indis and her descendants stood, Angaráto and Aikanáro were murmuring to each other, their faces pale and set. Artanis occasionally shot them a cool look, disapproving of the broken silence, but said nothing herself.

A faint, rustling movement to the far right caught Turukáno's eye, and he looked over to where Fëanáro and his house (even Nerdanel, which startled him) stood.

Turukáno had little love to spare for his eldest uncle. His heart was still moved to pity on his father's behalf, who had been done ill by Finwë in favor of Fëanáro. Fëanáro and his sons had had the years in exile with Finwë, where Nolofinwë was never given the chance to make peace with him. He received no apology from Finwë for siding with the son who had threatened his brother, who had rightly been exiled for such a transgression, over the son who had been so wronged. Fëanáro had tendered no apology either, no true apology, and he should not have even been allowed to pass back through the gates of Tirion; the length of his exile had not been fulfilled.

Turukáno had little love in his heart for his uncle, and, though he'd not been close with them to begin with, he'd lately felt considerably less love for his cousins, considering the blind support they had shown their father. He'd not felt liking or sympathy for Fëanáro in years, not since he had become aware of the contempt in which Fëanáro held his father. The feelings which arose in him when he looked at his uncle were not liking, not sympathy, but they were such close kin to pity that Turukáno almost hated himself for it.

Fëanáro had removed the hood of his cloak, which he'd worn over his head since returning to Tirion after fleeing into the wilderness. Turukáno saw now what he had been unable to see when the cowl was up over his uncle's face—Fëanáro had cut his hair brutally short, so short that the tips barely brushed his jaw. His three youngest sons had followed suit; the four of them all looked strangely boyish for the change.

At first, when the pity was chased away by better judgment, Turukáno's reaction was to feel anger. Was Fëanáro really so intent on proving himself a better son to Finwë than his half-brothers that he would resurrect an old mourning custom just to differentiate himself from his brethren? Even when his father's corpse was burning, Fëanáro _still_ desired to stir up strife for a nís who may not have even wished for it?

But anger petered away, and a vague, numb emptiness stepped up to take its place. Fëanáro was just standing there, still as a statue or the dead Trees that still stood, withered and cracked and bent, on the mound of Ezellohar. Turukáno did not know if this was an attempt on Fëanáro's part to endear himself to the Noldor at the expense of his younger brothers. He didn't know if this was simply meant as an expression of grief. Who could ever tell with Fëanáro?

Finwë, High King of the Noldor, was slain by Moringotto on the steps of his house in Formenos. Taken from the ruins of the house were the three Silmarils, greatest works of the hands of Curufinwë Fëanáro, and now they were gone. Fair Laurelin and Telperion were drained by Ungweliantë's ravenous hunger, and the Calaquendi were now left to labor in darkness, in doubt, in fear.

The darkness brought his petty anger to nothing.

-0-0-0-

When Turukáno resolved to leave the Undying Lands for Endóre, he did not do so for fame or glory, though time would teach him that perhaps his head had been turned a little—every scion of Finwë's house was possessed of a spirit that longed for valor, and Turukáno was no exception. Though Fëanáro spoke at length of great deeds, that was not what moved Turukáno to stand with him.

He did not want new lands to lord over as did Findaráto and Artanis and some of their other kin. Endóre was not empty. It was filled with the Quendi who had never completed the journey to Aman, with Aulë's children and with Yavanna's, with even the Atani of lore. All of them were there, and likely had lords of their own who would not appreciate the intrusion of the Calaquendi. Neither did Turukáno wish simply to explore Endóre and carve out a new life there, as his sister did. He had been happy with the life he led in Tirion before darkness fell.

But that life could never be what it was, for the children of the stars once again had nothing but the stars to guide them, and a son of the blessed light could not live his life in the Undying Lands without it. Too much had changed.

Turukáno left Aman for the sake of those he loved. His siblings, his father, his family, the Noldor who followed him personally and every Noldo who planned to leave Aman. When he thought about it, he supposed he was even doing it for the people in Endóre who now felt the full weight of Moringotto's malice upon their backs. How could he give anyone aid, how could he support or protect them, if he stayed behind in Aman? How could he lead his people if he stayed here?

He left Tirion firm in the knowledge that once Moringotto was vanquished, once Finwë was avenged, they would be able to return. Turukáno would not raise Itarillë in that land, away from so many of her family, away from the enlightenment and learning of Tirion and Oiolossë. He would not sunder Elenwë from her kin for long.

" _I swear to you, Elenwë; this will not be forever."_

_She did not look convinced._

But that was not to be. The Noldor could not turn back to Aman, for the way behind them was sealed with a wall of blood.

" _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains."_

The Doom, the curse that would drive them into the arms of death, would never allow them to return. The blood on Turukáno's hands would never allow him to return, not unless it was to be delivered into the gray veils of the Halls. The Doomsman would not be satisfied with anything less.

And already, his curse was taking its toll.

Who knew what the breadth of the Sundering Sea must be, but still, the flames and the smoke were clearly visible through the darkness, through the clouds, through the spray from the crashing waves on the rocks of Araman. An eldritch red light flickered on the other side of the Sea, casting dancing shadows on the beginnings of the ice sheets that made up the Helcaraxë.

Here was the Doomsman's curse, coming home to roost. Here was the spilled blood of the Kinslaying screaming for retribution, and its cries being heard. Here was Fëanáro's malice making itself known in a way no one could ignore.

"I'm almost relieved," he heard Artaresto murmur. His cousin rubbed at his arms, staring bitterly at the pyre of smoke that rose towards the inky sky. "I don't know how I could ever have boarded one of those ships."

Neither could Turukáno. But it would not make the road forward, the road they were now inexorably driven towards, any less perilous.

-0-0-0-

"We can still turn back, if you wish it. I know you have no desire to be sundered from your kin; I could do as Uncle has done and abase myself before the—"

She took her hand from his and walked on ahead.

-0-0-0-

The history books would say that their travails on the Helcaraxë had made Nolofinwë and his host stronger. They would say that the suffering of the Noldor who crossed the Grinding Ice had made them stronger. Nolofinwë's people only grew more valiant as the result of their suffering. It had been necessary for them. They would never have been strong enough to face what awaited them in Beleriand.

What fiction. What a pat lie. Turukáno did not know where it started—perhaps in Vinyamar, maybe even in the camps by Lake Mithrim—but where it first came to sound in his ears so jarringly was in Gondolin, in texts written by historians and loremasters who had been born children of the Exile rather than in Aman. They had never walked the barren ice sheets or traversed the mountains.

What… What the Noldor had suffered on the Helcaraxë had not made them any stronger than they had been before they took the first step out onto the Ice. That was a fiction that dissolved instantly in the face of Turukáno's memory. Starvation, squalor, hopelessness. Telling your children that they would not eat because no food had been found. Telling your children that a fire could not be lit because no wood had been found, or what would had been found had to be used to keep warm Quendi who had fallen into the water. The cold seeping into your bones, freezing your blood in your veins, and nothing could make the chill abate, nothing could bring warmth back to your skin, not fire, not physical exertion, nothing, until you were convinced that you would never be warm again. Turukáno's anger had been a constant, ebbing and flowing but never leaving him entirely, but it hadn't been enough to warm him, and never had anyone else's anger been enough to warm them either.

The suffering they endured had not made them stronger. Quendi lied down in the snow and refused to get up again, the Doomsman's threats coming home to roost, because they had lost their spouses or their children, their siblings, their parents, their friends, because they had lost hope, because they were too hungry and too cold and too _tired_ to carry on. Their suffering hadn't made them stronger.

That… You didn't travel the Helcaraxë with any hopes of it making you stronger. You didn't expect to find enlightenment. If you had already quailed from danger, the travails of the Grinding Ice and the losses you suffered would only make you more fearful in your heart.

Turukáno did not look for salvation, and neither did most of their people. The Valar would not heed their cries; that much was clear from the Doom that had been leveled against them. After long enough, so long that he could no longer tell the length of time the Noldor had traveled the Helcaraxë, he could only hope—

"What are you doing?"

One sort of cold felt much like another, but even so, Turukáno barely felt the blast of the howling wind on his face when the tent flap was lifted open. He said nothing as Irissë stepped into the tent, surveying the scene before her—the ground covered with long hanks of dark, matted hair, and her brother, kneeling on a blanket with a small knife in his hands.

"I'm just cutting my hair." Even to his own ears, Turukáno's voice sounded toneless, more like the wind than the voice of a Quendë. That was actually becoming more and more common, out here, for a Quendë to become insubstantial as the wind (cold as it, too), and for their voice to become as inflectionless and meaningless as the wind.

"Yes, I can see that. Badly, too," Irissë remarked bluntly, tossing her gloves to the ground as she started to rummage through their belongings. "Don't do any more. I'll do the rest of it. You see…" Something made a metallic 'clink' as she pulled it out. "…It's much easier with scissors."

He said nothing, voiced no protest as she sat down behind him, cutting what hair was still long and, after that, beginning to trim the uneven ends into some semblance of neatness. He wasn't sure if he even wanted Irissë's help or not, but either way, he didn't have the energy to shake her off.

"You know, if you're trying to get rid of the lice, I don't think this is going to work." Irissë never sounded like the wind. It amazed Turukáno, albeit distantly. Where he watched everyone else wither away and become as insubstantial as the wind and the shimmer of Rána's light on the ice, Irissë remained as solid as the trunk of an oak tree. She was thin and ragged, had grown quiet and grim, but her eyes came to burn rather than grow dim. "I don't think anything short of shaving your head altogether would rid you of them, and even that's not a permanent solution. They're in the furs we're using and I swear when I pick one out it spawns twenty more." Her tone was entirely too light, even laced with an irritated grumble as it was. "If not for that I'd shave my own head to be done with it, and damn the whispers."

"That's not why," Turukáno said flatly.

Irissë paused. He heard her take a few deep, ragged breaths, and didn't turn round to look at her. "I know," she said quietly. "I know that, Turukáno."

…

"…When this is done, your hair's going to fall all over your face."

"I know that."

She didn't ask questions, as Arakáno and their father and Itarillë did. She didn't stare at him questioningly the way the rest of their family and many of the Quendi following Turukáno did. They had been close enough in Aman, closer to each other than they were to their other siblings, but Turukáno found himself cleaving more to Irissë than he had in Aman, when she had so often been away traveling and he had had his own family to think about.

"Why didn't Father turn back after the burning of the ships? Why did he turn back after Alqualondë?" Turukáno found himself raging at one point when they were alone. They sat near the meager fire kindled in their tent, pressed closer together—Itarillë was staying in Nolofinwë and Lalwen's tent this time; Turukáno wasn't sure he was capable of voicing these thoughts in her presence.

He didn't dare voice these thoughts to anyone but her.

"Why didn't you?" Irissë asked sharply. She shifted her weight and held her hands close to the fire. She stared into the flames, her face waxen, her brow furrowed. "Why didn't any of us?" she asked, troubled.

Turukáno couldn't bring himself to answer.

-0-0-0-

By the time Arakáno was killed, Turukáno's hair had grown long enough that it barely brushed his shoulders, though not by much. He would cut it short later, but first, he would give the Orcs who had killed him reason enough of their own to mourn. He could barely meet his father's eyes when they returned to where they had left the rest of the Host.

-0-0-0-

The morning was gray and dreary; even the rays of sunlight passing through the cloud canopy couldn't banish the gloom. The snows had just melted away around a week ago, the air still full enough of chill that Turukáno didn't like to stray too far from a campfire. His dislike of the cold, it seemed, was something shared by many others among the Noldor—most of the Host who didn't have duties that took them outside were either huddled inside of their tents or in front of campfires just outside of them.

Irissë and Itarillë were exceptions to this rule. They had set out at dawn to the nearby Mithrim settlement, whose children Itarillë liked to play with and whose adults, rather surprisingly (given her tendency to be distant to those outside of the family), Irissë seemed to enjoy spending time with. Turukáno sought out the company of their cousins rather than their father or aunt, and found Findaráto sitting at his campfire with Angaráto and Aikanáro.

"Alright, what should I sing next?" Findaráto asked, his gray eyes twinkling ever so slightly, once his latest song had come to an end. He ran his hand over the back of the swan-harp he had brought all the way from Tirion, refusing to burn it even when the need for firewood was dire (Though Turukáno supposed that that didn't make Findaráto any worse than Findekáno who'd done the same thing despite being not nearly so skilled a harpist as his cousin).

From his spot lying on the ground, legs up in the air, Aikanáro rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Not another love ballad, _please_ ," he groaned. "I can't stand you and Angamaitë moaning over your lady loves."

Beside him, Angaráto made a sharp, impatient noise in the back of his throat. "If you ever fall in love, Náro, with nís or nér, you'll understand what the 'moaning's' all about. What about that old song about Míriel Serindë, Findaráto?"

Findaráto shook his golden head. "No, I don't think so, Angaráto." He stared pensively into the fire. "Truthfully, it seems too depressing a topic. And besides, you've asked for the last three songs; it's time for someone else to decide. Turukáno?"

Turukáno, who'd only been paying a passing amount of attention to the exchange, started and stared into his cousin's kind, if someone pinched from hunger, face. "Hmm?"

"Come, Turukáno, what do you want me to sing?"

The songs weren't why Turukáno had sought out Findaráto's company. The tent was too empty with Irissë and Itarillë gone, Findekáno was still missing, who knew where Artaresto and Artanis were, Turukáno had never been close with Lalwen, and he'd been seeking out his father's company less and less lately. He would have been happy to go without song or even speech. But what Turukáno knew was that Findaráto only allowed the ones he loved to make such a request of him.

"A song of the Trees."

After a moment of silence, Aikanáro snorted. "I'd never thought you the type."

Findaráto was more diplomatic. "Well, you're going to have to be more specific than that. Do you mean the yavannamírë, or the taniquelassë, or the cedar or the laurel?"

Turukáno shook his head. "No, Findaráto. I am speaking of the Two Trees."

With that, Turukáno had three pairs of quizzical eyes casting scrutiny on him, but he had never been the sort to quail under scrutiny. "Surely there must be many," he went on, staring frankly at Findaráto. "I think I have heard you sing a few."

Findaráto traced the outline of the swan's head carved into his harp with one finger. "Indeed, there are. Well, cousin, if you wish for it, there is one by Elemmírë that I think would be appropriate."

There were plenty who speculated that the light of Rána and Vása were derived from Telperion and Laurelin; many of the Noldor clung to the idea as though it was the only hope they had left of having anything of Aman. Turukáno understood these people, on both the ideas that Rána and Vása were products of the Trees and that they valued them as being mementoes of Aman. The Trees were such a foundation of the Calaquendi's lives that to many of them, even a faint echo of their light would have been welcome, hailed as a blessing. So too would the idea of having something of Aman be considered a blessing, considering that it had been forever fenced against the Exiles.

To Turukáno, all Rána and Vása would ever be was an echo, a shadow of the lost glory of the Trees. Vása blocked the light of the stars and even at its noontide could not banish the deepest of shadows. Rána could barely cut through shadows at all, and that was when it had waxed to roundness; when it was but a sliver, or gone, it was as though the Darkening had occurred all over again.

When Turukáno looked up into the sky and saw them there, he almost felt as though he was being mocked.

But when Turukáno shut his eyes and listened to Findaráto sing, he could almost imagine that the light that shone behind his eyelids was Treelight, and not the echo that was Vása's.

-0-0-0-

"I don't think I'd noticed until now—it never looked like much of _anything_ on the plans—but this city of yours resembles Tirion greatly."

Turgon and Aredhel walked the green sward of the Tumladen together, surveying the half-finished construction of the city Ulmo had instructed the former to build ( _He had expected to feel resentment, but instead felt only relief when he realized that at least one of the Valar still felt compassion for the Exiles_ ). The air was filled with the shouts of the workmen, both Quenya and Sindarin, the sharp chipping sounds of chisels upon stone. There were some who had already moved into their new homes in the city, but Turgon, Aredhel and Idril would not do the same until the entire city was finished.

She was looking at him, not quite sharply, but her pale gaze was still a searching one. "Yes, it does," Turgon admitted. Aredhel had supported him through all of this, from the very beginning when he had confided in her the dream he had received from Ulmo. She'd not even gone against his decision not to tell their father, though she'd certainly had questions. He could be honest with her on something so trivial as that. "It was a deliberate choice."

"Really?" Some of her unruly hair had fallen loose from its braid and blew over her face as she looked him over. "That's not what I expected."

Turgon opened his mouth to reply, but Aredhel broke pace with him and hopped onto the cobblestone path that led into and up the city with a light, practiced ease; she'd already wandered the paths through the city several times. A Sinda sitting high up on a construction apparatus called out to her and she responded with a wave of the hand and even a slight smile. Turgon peered at the Sindarin worker curiously, but the nér wasn't anyone he recognized. "Who is that?" he asked Aredhel when he caught up with her.

"An old friend of Itarillë's," she responded. "From Mithrim. He was one of the children she played with."

"Ah." Among her other duties, Idril was in charge of getting food and drink to the workmen at mealtimes. Turgon wondered how many of the friends both Idril and Aredhel made in Endóre were among them; he knew that many of the Sindar in his host came from Mithrim. He frowned lightly. "Irissë, why are you surprised that I would model Ondolindë after Tirion?"

She shrugged, not quite meeting his gaze. "Finno and Artanis and most of our family, to be honest, came here with the desire to establish themselves. There is not enough land in all of Aman for the Noldor's ambitions," she said with a somewhat bitter quirk of the lip, and Turgon remembered the sheer lack of interest Aredhel had taken in the political machinations of Tirion with a wince. "I didn't take you to have quite the same goals as them, but here we are. Vinyamar wasn't Tirion's spitting image, and if you're trying establish yourself here, out from under our father and our grandfather's shadows, I'd think that you wouldn't want to model Ondolindë after the city they both ruled."

It was a good point. As much as it embarrassed him, Turgon had to admit that he sometimes forgot that Aredhel, for all that she wasn't terribly interested in these matters, could be a very good judge of her family's natures when she wished to be. He fiddled with the gold ring on his left hand, a nervous habit of old that he'd broken in early adulthood, but fallen back into in Beleriand (he suspected that he would have fallen back into the habit on the Helcaraxë, but he'd not worn any jewelry there for fear of frostbite), and had never quite managed to break again. "Vinyamar was… Well, sister, you know it was more for function than for show. It was not Tirion's equal for beauty, and I'm not sure anything can be."

"So you're going to make a city in Tirion's image instead?"

"It seems the best course of action. In Tirion we had safety." _Until the skies darkened._ "I don't think that living in so much uncertainty has done the Exiles any good." The metal band of the ring always felt cold under his touch, even on warm days such as this. "Living in a city reminiscent of Tirion will be a return to stability, and the least we can do for the Sindar is share the beauty of Aman with them."

"If you say so." But her expression was a skeptical one, and Aredhel always walked a little ahead of him for the rest of the day, her arms linked behind her back.

-0-0-0-

A few days later, they journeyed back into the city and ventured into the palace at the highest point of Ondolindë, half-finished and unfurnished as it was. The two of them stood at a window, staring down on the green vale and the tent-city perched at the edge. The skies were packed with smoke-gray, gloomy clouds—though it was just after noon, Turgon thought the light levels more appropriate to early evening.

"Well, I'm glad that at least the King's Halls don't resemble the palace in Tirion," Aredhel remarked with a brittle smile. She ran her hand over the cool windowsill, fingertips skating over the grooves in the stone.

Turgon laughed ruefully. "I thought about it, but I decided that that might be going too far."

Aredhel offered up her own laughter, hoarse and barking. "Indeed. If you had made a home for us that could make me believe that Finwë might step out from behind a door, I would have been obliged to give you a black eye, and I don't think it would have done much for your image."

Probably as a result of associating herself with their rowdy half-cousins so much growing up, Aredhel doling out casual threats of violence such as that to her brothers or the aforementioned half-cousins had been a common thing to hear in Aman. Turgon had never thought he would miss that, but as the Unrest grew more tense, Aredhel had stopped saying such things, and this might have been the first time since then that he'd heard such a thing pass her lips. He smiled slightly. "I think the people would forgive it. Everyone fights with their siblings once in a while. Even kings."

Fëanor and Fingolfin had quarreled often enough, after all.

And in Ondolindë, they might not be able to have Tirion, but they could have its shadow, without the pall of the Unrest or the Darkening. A shadow of Tirion never touched by strife or death.

Aredhel drew a deep breath, stretching her shoulders. "Well, Turukáno, may your city endure long enough for it to live up to your dreams."

He thought nothing of the comment at first. If anything, Turgon was so doubtful that their father or older brother would approve of this plan that he was pleased to hear Aredhel give her blessing to the project (And sometimes, Turgon would wonder why the first blessing she gave had not been enough). But then, he thought about what she said, and frowned.

"Irissë?" he said uncertainly. "It's your city too."

"Hmm." The light was too dim now for him to make out her face clearly; she was doused in shadow beside him. The light was not too dim for Turgon to see that she had stiffened a bit, her hand now clenched on the windowsill rather than simply resting on it.

It was an ambivalence that would persist for years upon years, a seed from which frustration and bitterness would sprout. Turgon was always faced with it, though when it met his eyes he never knew what to say to it, let alone what to say to _her_. Later would come the days when he would wish that he'd not allowed it to fester into what it was by the end. Perhaps Aredhel wouldn't have turned her back on him that day as she left. Maybe she would have looked back, just once.

-0-0-0-

The stone floor was littered with long strands of dark brown hair, freshly shorn from their bearer's head. Their lengths were uneven; Turgon's hand was steadier this time, but it was still difficult to cut evenly. The thought came to him that he could have saved time by gathering up all his hand and slicing through it with a knife in one clean stroke, but it drifted away from him.

He stared into the mirror, meeting his own red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. _"When this is done, your hair's going to fall all over your face."_ Her shade, translucent and wavering like the reflection of Rána upon the waters of Gondolin's fountains, flickered behind him, winking in and out of view.

He mouthed the words he'd said to her.

" _Why didn't Father turn back after the burning of the ships? Why did he turn back after Alqualondë?"_

" _Why didn't you? Why didn't any of us?"_

His vision blurred, and the scissors fell to the ground as he covered his face with his hands and sobbed.

**Author's Note:**

> Turukáno—Turgon  
> Carnistir, Moryo—Caranthir  
> Irissë—Aredhel  
> Findaráto—Finrod  
> Findekáno, Finno—Fingon  
> Itarillë—Idril  
> Fëanáro, Curufinwë—Fëanor  
> Nolofinwë—Fingolfin  
> Angaráto, Angamaitë—Angrod  
> Aikanáro, Náro—Aegnor  
> Artanis—Galadriel  
> Moringotto—Morgoth  
> Ungweliantë—Ungoliant  
> Artaresto—Orodreth  
> Arakáno—Argon
> 
> Calaquendi—"Elves of the Light"; the Elves who came to Aman from Cuiviénen, or were born there, especially those born during the Years of the Trees and had born witness to their light; the Vanyar, the Noldor, and the Falmari (singular: Calaquendë) (Quenya)  
> Quendi—literally 'the Speakers'; Elves (singular: Quendë) (Quenya)  
> Nís—woman (plural: nissi)  
> Oiolossë—'Ever-snow-white'; the most common name amongst the Eldar for the mountain (and city of the same name, in my canon) of Taniquetil; I have, however, made it a name more commonly used by the Teleri and especially the Noldor, to explain how the Elves of Middle-Earth came to call the city by the Sindarin translation of this name, 'Amon Uilos'  
> Minyar—'Firsts', the first clan of the Elves of Cuiviénen, who were named for Imin and Iminyë, the former of whom was the first Elf to awaken. The Noldor called them 'Vanyar', 'Fair ones' (rendered in Primitive Quendian as 'wanjā', and rendered in Telerin as 'Vaniai'), due to the nearly-universal trait of fair hair among the clan, but even in Aman, they still often referred to themselves as 'Minyar.' (Singular: Minya) (Adjectival form: Minyarin)  
> Falmari—those among the Teleri who completed the journey to Aman; the name is derived from the Quenya falma, '[crested] wave.'  
> Neri—men (singular: nér)  
> Endóre—Middle-Earth (Quenya)  
> Atani—Men (singular: Atan) (Quenya); the name given to Men in the lore of Valinor  
> Rána—literally 'The Wanderer' (Quenya); the name the Noldorin Exiles gave to the Moon  
> Yavannamírë—'Jewel of Yavanna', a fragrant evergreen tree with scarlet fruit, brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa  
> Taniquelassë—a fragrant evergreen tree brought to Númenor by the Elves of Tol Eressëa  
> Vása—literally 'The Consumer' (Quenya); the name the Noldorin Exiles gave to the Sun  
> Ondolindë—'Stone Song', the original Quenya name of Gondolin (Quenya)


End file.
